


Get Exposed, Potato-Breath

by voluptuous_ducks



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Hickies, M/M, a lil kinky, get exposed binch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voluptuous_ducks/pseuds/voluptuous_ducks
Summary: As soon as Italy turned in the direction of England’s voice, Romano saw the neck of Italy’s sweater move to reveal an irregular, bruise-coloured oval mark rise above the collar, marking the usually flawless skin. He had gotten enough of them from Spain to know what it was. A hickey. No, not one, but… three?





	Get Exposed, Potato-Breath

**Author's Note:**

> a lil kinky, dont kill me please. nothing is really explicit tho.
> 
> i know the waste plan probably wasnt germanys idea but i just needed to add something for them to talk about, idk. i think theyre concerned about the trash island in the middle of the ocean and if theres going to be another country born. thatd be funny.

Nobody would ever forget the Holiday World Meeting of 2018.

To set the scene, the world meeting was in London. Nothing out of the ordinary, as it was usually held in either England, Paris, or New York, and occasionally Berlin or Moscow. But Italy was hyped once again and was practically jumping off the walls with excitement. Nothing Germany couldn’t handle. He was used to it at this point.

“Oh, oh! Germany, look!”

“Yes, Italy, very nice-”

“Ooooh, and look at _that!_ ”

“Wow, very nice.”

“You’re not even looking!”

“That’s because I would break my neck by accident if I look around at the rate you’re pointing.”

“Ah, sorry. OH! Germany, look at _that…_ ”

And it wasn’t long before they reached the location of the world meeting. Most would expect world meetings to be held at the capital of each country, but of course, that wasn’t usually the case. In fact, nothing was ever held in a government building at all.

The location of today’s meeting? 221B, Baker Street. A sort of landmark, not a government building. In fact, it was a museum. But, as they approached the lineup, the people at the door who were managing the flow of people in let them through. Near the very back of the place was a half-hidden door, obscured by a bookshelf. Past the door, down a darkly-lit hallway lined with many boxes of storage, down an elevator and up a small flight of stairs, was their meeting room. 

Germany and Italy were usually the first there, minus the host. Not really ever because of Italy’s willingness to go, just Germany’s strict schedule. Then France, Spain, and Prussia (who wasn’t required to attend meetings, but he liked to travel and see his friends while being up-to-date) would arrive, usually with Romano in tow. The Nordics, a few lesser-known countries, then China, Japan, Canada, Russia, and lastly, America. All dressed impeccably in suits with the occasional holiday accessory to brighten it up.  
Germany was in a dark navy blue suit, wearing pale blue tie with thin silver stripes. Every other nation pretty much looked the same, some with thicker coats against the winter snow, different coloured suits, some wearing hats. Russia was wearing a tee-shirt but that’s besides the point. Italy, who usually loved wearing suits and the occasional tux, was not wearing a suit. He wore a turtleneck sweater with a suit jacket over it, dress pants, and dress shoes. No one really thought much about it.

Except Romano.

“Happy New Years, I guess” he greeted Italy, shaking his brother’s hand firmly in attempt to hold off on a hug. Too late.

“Romano!! Happy New Years, I love you!” Italy squealed, squeezing the poor man’s body tightly. The other nations chuckled at the sight, but Romano glared at them and that seemed to do the trick. 

“Don’t touch me. Anyway,” he mumbled, “what’s with the getup? You of all people like wearing these custom suits-” he gestured to himself, proudly showing off his evergreen-coloured attire, “-but you’re wearing a turtleneck of all things?”

Italy didn’t answer the question. In fact, he blatantly ignored it. “Wow! That’s a beautiful colour on you Roma! You should wear it more often!”

“Feliciano. _Why are you wearing that_.” He pressed, pushing his brother’s hands away gently. Said brother, however, just scratched the back of his neck. 

“I just wanted to wear… uh… something different, you know?”

“You hate turtlenecks with a burning passion,” Romano reminded him impatiently, “you claim it makes you feel too closed in and that you prefer to wear nothing.”

Italy still didn’t give a proper answer. “Germany gave it to me…?”

“He knows you don’t like turtlenecks. I _told_ him.”

There was a beat of silence between them, which never happened. Romano opened his mouth to interrogate further, but- “Alright, everyone, settle down, we’ve got a meeting to get started!”

And he couldn’t press. He didn’t actually need to, now. 

Because as soon as Italy turned in the direction of England’s voice, Romano saw the neck of Italy’s sweater move to reveal an irregular, bruise-coloured oval mark rise above the collar, marking the usually flawless skin. He had gotten enough of them from Spain to know what it was. A hickey. No, not one, but… three?

It didn’t take much thought to know who they were from.

Romano immediately frowned, wrinkling his nose. He knew they were in a… very involved relationship… but he certainly did NOT wanna see the aftereffects of what probably happened the night before. The thought made his stomach twist in disgust, his eye twitch. He hated that man. Why did Italy have to be in a relationship? And why with that bastard of all people? 

He had to let it go though. The meeting was starting. He took his respective seat between Spain and Italy, arms folded tightly. That bastard, marking up his brother like that! His poor innocent brother probably had no idea what was going on! And that wet sock had probably taken advantage of him! He didn’t notice his hands were shaking until Spain placed his over his own. _Are you okay?_ He mouthed, and Romano felt guilty for making Spain worry. _Yes, I’m fine._

He was fine. He just needed to concentrate. But it was hard, since it was that potato-chugger’s turn to talk. Blah, blah, whatever. Getting hot, he pulled off his jacket like the others, like Italy was doing. He saw the mark again. Anger forced him to lose track of the conversation. He didn’t even listen until- 

“Do I have everybody’s vote?” Germany asked, and there were nods all around. Except Romano.

“Absolutely not.”

Everyone turned to look at him in confusion. France, from the other side of the conference table, raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think adding separate specialized bins for recycling, garbage, and organic materials would reduce the amount of waste we produce and therefore it’s more helpful to the environment?”

“W-well, of course, but… who’s idea was it to do that?” He knew he was in the wrong but… if it was-

“Germany’s idea.”

“THAT’S why I don’t like it.”

Germany himself sighed, pinching his nose. “Romano, please.”

“Please what? Huh? You’re the problem here, fucking bastard. Do me a favour and take all the garbage to YOUR potato-infested land.”

“Hey! Romano, please don’t,” Italy pleaded. This happened so often it wasn’t funny anymore. But neither Germany or Romano heard, arguing back and forth.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

“I don’t know, I’m thinking it’s fairly obvious, you oblivious wet sock!”

“It’s uh… really not.”

“I think it really _is._ ”

“Romano, please, you need to try to get along with me better-”

“WELL MAYBE IF YOU STOPPED FUCKING MY BROTHER, WE WOULD BE ABLE TO GET ALONG A BIT BETTER!! EVER THINK ABOUT THAT, POTATO BOOB???”

Silence. No one remembered when Romano had stood up, or when Germany had either. But they all turned to the blond, curious as to what he was going to say. The usually stoic nation, however, didn’t say much; he only sputtered, speechless. Colour bloomed up from under his collar, and in a matter of seconds, his face was fiery red. “Wh-wh… I... I- we, of course we don’t…!”

“Romano, what the _fuck?!_ ”

No one ever hears Italy swear, or ever has heard him swear, for that matter. But even as the other nations, still confused, realized it was him, the situation got to a whole new level. Romano, stunned, turned to his brother, and before anyone could say anything, the two brothers were at each other’s throat, hitting each other with their fists and kicking. Russia had to duck out of the way, for once looking genuinely concerned and maybe a little scared.

“Wha- get off!!” Romano demanded, pulling at the bottom of Italy’s shirt. Italy himself only growled, thumping his fist on Romano’s back. Until his shirt slid off, leaving it in Romano’s grasp. What he sees makes Romano’s jaw go slack.  
It was highly unlikely that the amount of purplish-red marks on Italy’s torso are from the fight with him just now. No, definitely not. There are what look like tens of hickies, not ugly brown-yellow-blue bruises. All covering his neck, collarbone, around his shoulders, some on his pectorals. A few what look like bite-marks, and the most noticeable of all, a line of them leading down his stomach and disappearing below his belt buckle. He, much like Germany, goes stark red in the face, attempting to cover up his bare chest with his arms. 

“Good god,” England whispers, astonished. “He’s covered in them.”

France snorts from beside him, Gilbert spitting out whatever he was drinking and bursting into a fit of his signature laugh. That is, until Hungary whacks him on the back of the head, though she’s looking just as amused as he does. Austria has his mouth covered with a hand, looking a little pale. Spain doesn’t say anything from where he’s sitting, eyes wide. Russia, on the other hand, had stood up to break them apart, but now he’s just covering his face with his scarf, suddenly sheepish and flushed red.

“Ro _mano_!” Italy hisses, emphasizing the ending of the name. “ _Give me my damn shirt!_ ”

“I knew it! He’s a kinky bastard, he’s hurting you!” Romano retaliated, chucking the turtleneck harshly into Italy’s arms. He whips around to Germany, who is still somewhat frozen. “I cannot believe you! Taking advantage of my-”

“I asked for them, Romano!” Italy admitted, avoiding Romano’s shocked look, “He didn’t do them without my permission, okay?”

Silence.

“I-I have to go…” Romano breathed, running his hands through his hair. France spoke up, to England’s dismay. It was his meeting, though he supposed it was fine. He probably didn’t have a voice right now.

“Er... perhaps we can continue tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen? You’re all dismissed.”

**Author's Note:**

> i run the ask-noodle-gerita blog on tumblr, feel free to check it out my dude. hope you liked it.


End file.
